Just as he stepped toward the door leading down the staircase, it suddenly burst open with a loud bang. A commanding figure emerged from the other side, walking up into the storm-drenched rooftop.

  Su Ming’s first instinct was that this must be the contact Deathstroke was expecting.

  But then a gust of wind swept through, slicing the curtain of rain just enough for the neon lights from Wayne Tower to pierce the dark. The glow caught both him—and the newcomer.

  Something was off.

  The person in front of him wore the exact same armor. Same weapons. Same gear. The only difference? They were slightly shorter—maybe around five foot seven.

  The air turned heavy in an instant.

  Without thinking, Su Ming relied on the muscle memory of his new body. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed the baton strapped to his back. With a twist and a click, the colpsible staff extended with a mechanical snap, locking into full length as he dropped into a ready stance.

  This wasn’t just any weapon. This was Deathstroke’s signature bo staff—reinforced at both ends with powerful electric shocks and tranquilizer rounds. Employers often wanted their targets alive—so they could have some fun of their own.

  But the figure across from him? Mirrored his every move.

  If he hadn’t seen them enter through the door, Su Ming would’ve thought he was looking at his own reflection. Same fluid movements. Same rhythm. Same combat stance.

  “Who are you?” they both said at the same time.

  Their voices, distorted by the helmets, echoed like gravel-ced whispers of demons.

  “I’m Deathstroke.” Again, in eerie synchronization.

  The tension between them ratcheted up another level. Circling one another warily, they moved in slow, deliberate arcs—like predators staking cim over the same kill.

  Rain smmed against the rooftop in sheets, but neither of them spoke again. Just quiet calcution. Distance. Observation. That was the mark of a true martial artist: never strike blind.

  Su Ming couldn’t read his opponent’s thoughts—but he knew his own were racing.

  What the hell is going on? Another version of me? Did a whole batch of us get dumped into this world at once? Did everyone become Deathstroke? Or… is that the real Deathstroke, and I’m just some cospy enthusiast with delusions of grandeur?

  But then again, his physical reflexes, enhanced strength, and mental acuity were undeniably superhuman.

  Of course, in the DC Universe, those traits weren’t exactly rare. There were plenty of people with better close-combat skills than Deathstroke. But they had their own identities—none of them needed to wear the yellow-and-bck to impersonate the man himself.

  Within fractions of a second—thanks to the infamous nine-times-normal mental processing speed Su Ming had inherited—he ran through dozens of theories and dismissed them all.

  Stalemate.

  If he retreated, his footing might falter, leaving him wide open. Turning his back in Gotham? That was practically suicide.

  Only one way out. Win.

  That thought hit them both at the same time.

  And just as quickly, they unched forward.

  CLANG!

  Their staffs collided mid-air, metal scraping against metal in a bone-jarring crash. Both reeled back a step, water spshing beneath their boots. Instantly, they repositioned—staffs aimed and ready, each daring the other to strike again.

  Su Ming exhaled slowly. Thank God I inherited Deathstroke’s fighting instincts too. This body doesn’t just move—it obeys like a perfectly tuned weapon. Whoever he was now, he knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t helpless.

  His opponent didn’t press the attack. Like him, they were weighing options.

  If that’s a regur person in a Deathstroke helmet, they’d be blind on the right side. That kind of restricted vision is hard to adapt to. The best pn is to hit the right leg—just outside their field of view, past the nose’s shadow line. Fast. Precise. Decisive.

  He twirled his staff, flicking it through the rain, and swung for the right leg.

  Whoosh!

  Whoosh!

  Twin arcs of metal sliced through the storm, rain droplets exploding mid-air. Two streaks of shadow caught the ambient neon, parting the night in perfect symmetry.

  CRACK!

  Another head-on csh.

  They’d both gone for the same weak point, both guarded the same spot.

  Another tie.

  The sheer force of the collision sent them twisting away, using the momentum to roll into low stances. They crouched low, one hand bracing against the slick rooftop, the other gripping the staff like a scorpion’s stinger—poised to unleash the tranquilizer shot.

  But again—they mirrored each other.

  Two spshes. Two identical postures.

  Dammit, Su Ming thought. Just got dropped into the DC Universe and already I’m stuck in some bizarre standoff with myself. Same gear. Same moves. Same damn instincts. There’s no way this ends in a clean win—more like a three-day slugfest ending in a newsworthy explosion.

  Maybe it’s time to try something else.

  “Wait!” they both shouted.

  Su Ming internally groaned. Of course. Synchronized again.

  Clearly, the other wasn’t eager to fight either. And really, no mercenary in their right mind would waste this much effort on a mark that hadn’t even come with a contract. Personal grudges were one thing—unpaid overtime was another.

  “Put down your weapon. Let’s talk.”“You first.”“Together.”“Fine.”

  He was ready to tear his hair out. What the hell is this telepathic twin nonsense? I was a regur dude on Earth, not some clone. How the hell are we so perfectly in sync?

  But then he stopped himself.

  No. That’s not it. I’ve never been in a life-or-death fight before. Back on my world, I was more of a drifting delinquent—never had to make real decisions in the dark. I’m leaning on Deathstroke’s instincts. His tactics. His way of thinking. But I’m still me. I know that much. I’m still Su Ming—at least in my own head.

  Both of them tossed their staffs aside at the same moment.

  Cnk—ctter—spsh.

  Weapons hit the roof, sliding through grime and rain.

  They faced each other, rain cascading down their helmets like twin waterfalls.

  “Talk.”Again, in unison.

  Su Ming raised a hand, pcing the other palm atop it. “Stop. No more creepy soulmates routine, alright? This is officially the most unnerving thing I’ve ever lived through. Let me go first, yeah?”

  “Gdly,” the other said, with what sounded like genuine relief.

  “I’m a mercenary. Code name: Deathstroke. Real name: Sde. But you can call me Su.”

  It was simple and vague—because honestly, he had no clue which parallel world this was. Better to keep it broad.

  “Interesting. I’m a mercenary too. Deathstroke. Real name: Cindy.”

  She touched her helmet, shifting awkwardly.

  Deathstroke didn’t do masks for anonymity. The bck-and-yellow armor wasn’t about secrecy—it was a warning. Like a wasp’s stripes. Everyone knew who Deathstroke was. Sde Wilson. Mercenary legend.

  Secrecy didn’t get you clients. Reputation did.

  Wait—Cindy?

  “Don’t tell me… the military cloned me again?” Su Ming muttered.

  Given Deathstroke’s background—ex-military, government experiment—it wasn’t exactly a stretch. And in the DC universe, clones were practically a dime a dozen.

  “No. I don’t think we’re clones,” Cindy said. “The guy who enhanced me is long dead. And the serum only had one dose.”

  She reached up to the right side of her helmet, feeling for a subtle tch. With a quick twist and lift, she removed the mask.

  Su Ming blinked. Hard.

  Cindy was a woman.

  Golden buzzcut. Striking, cold features. Beautiful in that sharp, dangerous kind of way. Cssic American stunner. But she wore a bck eye patch over her right eye too.

  He hadn’t expected this.

  She was young—mid-twenties at most.

  Wait. That can’t be right. If she’s my female counterpart, shouldn’t she be in her fifties too…?

  Curious, Su Ming fumbled around the inside of his own helmet. Found the same tch. Pushed. Lifted.

  The cool rain hit his face immediately.

  Cindy’s eyes widened—clearly confused by what she saw.

  Su Ming looked down, catching his reflection in a murky puddle. Despite the rain, he could make out the essentials: short, spiky blond hair. Rugged, handsome features with a roguish edge. A thin yer of stubble. And a bck leather eyepatch over his right eye.

  He reached up—confirmed it. Empty socket beneath.

  No question. He had inherited Deathstroke’s younger body.

  But that raised even more questions.

  In cssic canon, Deathstroke lost his eye either from his wife shooting him… or from Damian Wayne gouging it out. Either way, he shouldn't have lost it this early—back when he was still a nobody in the military.

  What timeline was this?

  “You’re a man?” Cindy asked, voice ft but ced with disbelief.

  Su Ming felt equally confused. Lady Deathstroke?

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Men that strong are rare,” she said. “The only other I’ve heard of is Wonder Man.”

  She walked toward the giant ‘W’ logo of Wayne Enterprises, pulled out a cigar, and lit it with a practiced flick. Her hand trembled ever so slightly.

  Su Ming followed. She didn’t seem like a threat anymore—and his questions were quickly becoming their questions.

  Digging into a simir pouch, he pulled out a small cigar case of his own. He lit one too, joining her in silent, smoky camaraderie.

  When she mentioned Wonder Man, the puzzle clicked into pce.

  Earth-11.

  One of the many parallel worlds in the DC Multiverse. The one ruled by the Amazons. Here, nearly every hero and vilin had swapped genders.

  Batman became Batwoman. Superman became Superwoman. Aquaman? Aquawoman. The Fsh, Steel, even the Joker—they all had female counterparts. And the original women? Still women. Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bck Canary—they were all still around, just as fierce, but now they were besties with the female heroes instead of romantic interests.

  A strange world, where men had historically pyed second fiddle—only recently seeing any kind of social equality. Women ruled the businesses, the governments, the battlefield. The Amazons were the highest authority.

  And the only male superhero anyone actually knew?

  Wonder Man.

  Raised by Amazons. Cd in glittering armor. Basically Wonder Woman if she’d grown up bench pressing unicorns and reading feminist philosophy.

  Su Ming shuddered at the mental image. There’s no way I could hold a conversation with that guy while keeping a straight face.

  He gnced at Cindy, puffing her cigar like she was trying to smoke away her existential dread.

  So, she’s the real Deathstroke of this world. I must’ve crossed over from another universe—bringing this version of Deathstroke’s young body with me. And something in the transition made me younger, too. Time ripple? Dimensional flux?

  A wild theory, but for now, it was the only one that made sense.